


Questioning

by lemmealone



Category: Psych
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-22
Updated: 2010-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-06 13:19:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemmealone/pseuds/lemmealone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shawn is not drunk and Carlton does not share.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Questioning

It wasn't like it was the first time they'd bumped into one another at this particular bar; Carlton had vague, fuzzy memories of trying to give his handcuffs to the man, the first time it had happened. They'd seen each other there in passing, since. Spencer with Gus, with his father, with some giggling young thing wearing more makeup than clothes – more often recently with that girl he knew from school, Carlton thought. Abby, or Agatha or… he shook his head, irritated.

He couldn't exactly avoid the man, with him sitting right at the damn bar like he owned the place and every table in the room filled with cooing young couples or people who looked like they smelled. It seemed the universe was being kind, though, since Spencer had the good sense to at least ignore him until he'd ordered his drink, staring into his own girly concoction with surprising dedication.

He stirred, finally, when the bartender set Carlton's scotch onto a coaster.

"Lassie!" he chirped. "Of all the gin joints in all Santa Barbara in all the world, you had to-"

"Can it, Spencer," Carlton growled. "I'm just here for the drink."

Spencer looked up at him, then, and Carlton blinked. Huh. The PD's self-appointed Head Psychic had seen better days than this, apparently. His eyes were reddened and painful looking, ringed so dark it looked like he'd taken a boxing glove to the face.

Sweet merciful crap, was he actually drunk? Carlton had never seen him so much as unsteady on his feet from drink, even that night he'd given himself brain freeze from guzzling a frozen margarita. How long had he been drinking?

Come to think of it, nobody had seen him around the station in a couple of days.

"Spencer," he said incredulously. "Are you on a bender?"

The slightly hysterical giggle he got in response was not encouraging.

"Dude," Spencer said without a hint of slur in his words. "If I wanted to go on a bender I'd be in Tijuana right now. Possibly in a small jail cell making friends with a guy named Pedro." He rolled his head to the side in a barely-controlled movement, peering bloodshot at Carlton with a lopsided grin. "This is my first drink, officer. I swear."

That's not what it looks like, Carlton thought, and Spencer's smile grew loopier as if he'd heard.

"Why Lassieface," he caroled. "You don't belieeeeeve me? Well, fear not. I am not drunk. I am also not driving – Gus is coming to pick me up. Even I'll admit I'm not safe on the road right now."

Carlton eyed the half-drunk vodka-and-something on the bar, leaking condensation onto a coaster. "Never took you for this much of a lightweight," he said neutrally. The sooner Guster arrived to take his soused friend home the sooner he could relax and drink his scotch in peace.

"Oh, I'm not," Spencer assured him. In direct opposition to his words, his head thudded down onto the bar and he rolled his forehead against the sticky wood, groaning. "This is not booze, my fluffy companion. This is insomnia. This is near POW levels of sleep deprivation. This, my cornflower-hued seedy muffin, is Shawn Spencer after three consecutive days without a nap." He flinched as his cheek hit the bowl of nuts on the bar between them, and sat up so suddenly Carlton was forced to lunge and grab his arm to stop him toppling backwards.

"I once saw you fall asleep in Vick's office and drool on her desk," he said once the swaying had steadied. "When she tried to wake you up you called her 'Mom' and said you wanted banana pancakes. You'll forgive me if I have a little trouble buying you as an insomniac."

"Fine," Spencer spat at him, and Carlton drew back at the unexpected vitriol. "Laugh it up, Detective. Go on back to the station and talk about how drunk and pathetic I am, or how…" he stopped, and his eyes drooped shut. "God, I'm too tired to care. I'm sorry, Lassie. I didn't mean to come over all Sybil on you." He frowned, eyes still shut. "That's Sybil with the personality thing, not Cybill Shepherd. There's no need to apologise for being Cybill Shepherd. Unless you're talking about that movie where she was Martha Stewart…"

"Please for the love of all things holy, Spencer, stop talking." Carlton was almost sorry, though, when the outpouring of nonsense ended and Spencer forced his eyelids to creak back open. "Fine. You're having trouble sleeping? When Guster picks you up go home, take a hot bath, order takeout, sack out on your couch and marathon episodes of your favourite TV show. Don't try to sleep. Don't concentrate on anything except relaxing and watching TV. At least then you'll get some rest, if not some sleep. It worked for me after Victoria left m…" he stopped, horrified. Had he seriously been about to share details of his personal life with Shawn Spencer?

"Aaaw," Spencer crooned. "Carlton! I knew you cared!" He sobered for a moment, and shot Carlton a small, actual genuine smile. "Seriously, thanks for the advice. "I'll give it a try." The smile wavered, and he blinked furiously for a second. "If it'll even just shut my head up for five minutes…"

"It's not like you'll even remember this tomorrow," Carlton muttered, and wondered why that made Spencer laugh so hard he cried.


End file.
